


I heard you was freaky from a friend of mine

by Bobsled_Hostage



Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: Don't Try This At Home, Dubious Consent, F/F, POV Female Character, Prison Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, transactional sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bobsled_Hostage/pseuds/Bobsled_Hostage
Summary: Her name is Chahut Maenad. She wants to be your moirail. It’s hard to translate, but that’s like a best friend. The kind that isn’t shy about scrubbing you in the shower, or kissing you on the cheek. Or, gently, on the lips. As gently as she can, with that mouth and those teeth. The whole thing gets a little intimate a lot faster than you’d like, if you were calling the shots. But you aren’t. And making ill advised decisions in the pursuit of friendship is totally your thing. Your brand.
Relationships: Chahut Maenad & MSPA Reader, Chahut Maenad/Original Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 54





	I heard you was freaky from a friend of mine

So, violating numerous human and troll laws in pursuit of friendship wasn’t the smartest idea. They throw the book at you during sentencing. You’d say it was worth it, but that remains to be seen.

Prison is rough, moreso when filled with trolls. You’ve got an edge over the average human prisoner, courtesy of your time spent with Alts on the outside. Yeah, that’s a slur, but you’re a grizzled con now, you’ve got a part to play. Might even be fun, right?

Your first day in the yard, your path is blocked by the largest person you’ve ever seen. A troll, purple of blood and painted of face. Enormous horns, swooping down to her shoulders. A body by Zeus, and fangs by a wild boar.

You regain the power of speech.

H-hey!

You smile, thinking of what they’ll say at your funeral. It’s been a good run. Lots of people will miss you.

hey There cuTie pie

She pulls you into a hug. Squeezes you beneath her chin, between her enormous arms and between her enormous tits. Not even tight enough to hurt. A genuine, friendly hug, apropos of nothing.

Wait, what?

When you said getting locked up would put your friend accumulating acumen to the test, you _meant_ it.

It can’t be that easy.

* * *

Her name is Chahut Maenad. She wants to be your moirail. It’s hard to translate, but that’s like a best friend. The kind that isn’t shy about scrubbing you in the shower, or kissing you on the cheek. Or, gently, on the lips. As gently as she can, with _that_ mouth and _those_ teeth. The whole thing gets a little intimate a lot faster than you’d like, if you were calling the shots. But you aren’t. And making ill advised decisions in the pursuit of friendship is totally your thing. Your _brand_.

So, it takes all your shower time, and then some, to rinse, lather and rinse again her explosion of wiry black hair. But when you finish, it’s thick and fluffy enough to lose yourself in, and you have trouble putting her paint back on because her face is scrunched up in a smile. Yeah, she teaches you a little about the Dark Carnival. You don’t really understand it, except enough to take it seriously when you’re supposed to and laugh when you aren’t. But the paint is a big deal, you understand that.

It’s also a big deal when you rub her back. And her neck. And her head. She’s crazy jacked, but carrying those crazy horns around _hurts_. She did some complicated favor trade with one of the guards, who moved you in her cell. She’s got a big pile of clothes and other soft stuff, big enough to lie down in. Which is good, because she doesn’t really fit in the bunk - even one sized for trolls. She scoots when you tell her and makes a loud, rattling, happy sound when you sit on her back and massage her. When she lifts her face from the ratty undershirt where it was buried, her paint is runny with tears. You’re the first person to ever do this for her. 

She’s got plenty of contacts but almost no friends. Followers of the Mirthful Messiahs aren’t popular with, well, anyone in here. Humans and trolls know enough to steer well clear. Well, most humans.

Oh yeah, there are plenty of humans in here, besides you. Not a majority, but enough to sort into two categories

  1. Women nobody wants to mess with. With calloused fists, tattoos and scars spiderwebbing their bodies, sharp things tucked into their socks.
  2. Women who belong to someone. Maybe someone from category 1, maybe a troll.



You fall squarely into category 2. Based on what you’ve seen, you’re one of the lucky ones. Nobody can cover up bruises in the showers. And that’s not the worst thing you’ve seen. Or heard. Sometimes you cover your ears at night, when someone’s doing something horrible to someone and not being quiet about it. Chahut shouts across the tier to keep iT the fuck down! , which usually persuades them to carry out their debauchery silently. Then she wraps you in her heavy arms an her cloud of hair and swears she ainT gonna leT nothin happen To you. You still feel awful, but you manage to sleep.

* * *

You’re 3 months into your sentence the first time Chahut fucks someone in your cell.

The little rustblood is her to work off her daddy’s debt - the sleazy mustard blood in D block owes Chahut a favor. Biggest perk of being a shot caller: she can send someone else to pay with her ass. The screw locks the red blooded troll in your cell, and she takes her clothes off the second the guard is out of sight, knowing exactly what’s expected. She shivers, trying to cover herself and stay warm, even though she knows better. The ridges on her spiky little horns are sanded to make them easier to handle. Chahut makes good use of them when she hauls her onto the bed, pins her, and stuffs her with bulge. It can’t possibly fit. The rustblood concurs. You hear her shrieking somewhere under the enormous troll, who covers her entirely. She doesn’t beg, or cry for her to stop, or insist it’s too big. Just screams.

You cover your ears as best you can. She stops screaming quick, thankfully. Chahut must have gagged her, or threatened to do something worse. The pillow over your head doesn’t work well as an earplug. You hear Chahut hiss at the tiny troll pinned under her.

Tell ThaT noodle-bulged yellow [uninTelligible] I had To fuckin’ sTreTch you ouT. Tell her ThaT when she whines how fuckin’ loose I leave you.

A couple more curses. Bed springs creaking. Some wet squelching sounds. Grunting. A muffled cry of pain. Silence, finally, after a thousand years.

You venture an uncovered ear. The other bed creaks, returning to a neutral position as Chahut stands. She wipes herself on the rustblood’s clothes. Her victim is curled on the bed, belly slightly distended with all the slurry she’s carrying.

Sounds like someone else on the tier is still stroking herself to the sound, the smell. You turn away again.

Chahut climbs into the pile with you, like she does every night. This time, being folded against her big body doesn’t relax you. She still stinks of fear and sweat - of the woman she just fucked. You’d climb the walls to get away, if you could.

Maybe an hour later, when she’s sure Chahut is asleep, you hear the rustblood get up. There’s a slippery, biological sound, then the splash of slurry into the toilet. Squirting out what your moirail pumped into her. She stops halfway through to flush - she’s done this before, no telling how many times. You feel sick.

* * *

Later, when the rustblood has limped back to her daddy, and Chahut’s changed the sheets, and the cell is unlocked so you can get away in case you really need to, you jam with Chahut. You sit on the bed, she sits in the pile. Just far enough that her arms can’t reach you.

It doesn’t go great.

-yeah buT you know i’d never hurT you, babe.

It does hurt! It hurts me when you do that to people!

You stop to catch your breath. You don’t want to yell so everyone can hear.

It hurts when you hurt people who didn’t do anything, enough to make them scream!

...ainT you jusT the sweeTest Thing.

She’s sorry, really. But also frustrated.

if i don’T Take whaT i’m owed These buckeT kickers won’T respecT whaT’s mine. That means you.

She rests her massive hands on her knees, hunching over. You try not to think of how sharp her claws are.

and if llelly don’T pay whaT she owes, iT’s The same for her. you Think whaT i did To her liTTle rusTie was bad, There are bad biTches in here whaT’ll do Ten Times worse.

Don’t tell me it’s just something you had to do.

iT was.

But you enjoyed it too! Don’t lie.

...yeah, i did.

She grinds an enormous palm into her forehead in frustration.

i’m Tryin my besT, and i undersTand iT’s noT how humans do. buT i goT needs. and if i can geT ‘em Taken care of and keep my diamond safe aT The same Time, ThaT’s how Things have goTTa be.

Can you find someone else? Tell everyone you’ve got a girl and she doesn’t want anyone else paying you with sex.

She scrunches up her face.

messiahs, i’ve Tried. finding someone. buT in case you haven’T noTiced, circus don’T have The besT repuTaTion around here.

This is a sore subject for her.

nobody is going To give iT To me, and i ain’T gonna jusT Take iT. old habiTs die hard, buT noT _ThaT_ hard.

The walls are down. You have to handle this delicately. The next thing that comes out of your mouth isn’t the smartest thing you’ve ever said.

You could tell them it’s me.

She takes a second to respond to that.

well shiT, if ThaT don’T complicaTe Things

She leans forward and touches your hair with an enormous finger. You don’t flinch.

you jusT fronTing? ‘cause i didn’T know you felT ThaT way abouT me, sugargrub

You don’t.

I don’t.

You take her hand, or as much of it as you can grab onto.

But if you need it, I can handle it.

You don’t know if you can handle it. You’re offering to fuck an alien so she doesn’t sexually assault other women every time she needs to save face in front of the other cons.

you sure abouT This, babe?

There are a lot of reasons why you should not be sure about this.

* * *

You’re on the bottom bunk, on your back, in nothing but your socks. Chahut’s seen you naked before, every time you shower. But even with the sheet she hung to cover the cell door, you still feel more exposed than ever before. She shucks off her clothes, underwear. Naked except for her paint. Should you be looking at her face? Her wide shoulders and well-muscled arms? Her enormous breasts, so large you’d need both hands to cup just one? Her enormous thighs, almost purpose built to deliver powerful thrusts? The thick, purple tentacle she’s extruding from the lips between her hips?

You know what Chahut’s bulge looks like. She slides it out in the showers sometimes to clean it. And you’ve seen her jerk off in your cell. Stroking her giant alien dick with her giant alien hand. First time she caught you looking, she asked if you wanted her to wait ‘till after you left. You were too caught off guard to speak, you just shook your head. She grinned and kept grappling it, fucking her huge fist. You remember the musky smell, how she came so much she almost missed the plastic wastebasket she used as a pail.

So yeah, you’ve thought about this. Or had intrusive thoughts.

You put your feet up on the poles of the bed, like stirrups at the obgyn. Legs spread wide. You wish you could do this with a blanket, or your clothes on. But that would bean covering them with purple jizz until laundry day. There’s no lube. You told Chahut you needed it, but she couldn’t get the right hair stuff, and the prison soap isn’t the kind that’s safe to put in your vagina. Instead, your moirail milks her bulge over you. She looms at the end of the bunk and dribbles precum all over your mound. This does nothing to rectify your naked-in-a-cold-room problem. Actually, it exacerbates it. The chilly goo dribbles on your labia and your first instinct is to close your legs. You keep them open. If you start cringing, she’ll get scared she’s hurting you and the whole thing will fall apart. Maybe later you can get another blanket from the canteen, make that your sex blanket. It’ll stay folded and hidden and stained deep purple, except when you’re fucking under it, rinsing it or drying it. Material evidence of every time you’ve faced down her enormous bulge. Every time that blanket comes out, you'll press your thighs together in nervous anticipation.

Wait, why does _that_ turn you on?

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

An errant squirt lands on your nipple and disabuses you of your optimism. You flinch and your hands instinctively go to cover your chest. You force them down and resolve to keep them firmly fisted in the mattress until the encounter is over.

Chahut doesn’t notice. She’s got her eyes closed, jerking to a vision of someone else. Muttering something you can’t hear. You dutifully smear your hand over your lips, trying to get your vagina as slippery as possible before the main event. Chahut has to bend down and angle her head to see how you’re doing. Behind the paint, her harsh face is soft with real concern for you. You focus on that, not the massive appendage about to enter your body. You’ll get through this.

you ready for iT?

Last chance to back out. You nod.

Yeah.

No.

She puts it in.


End file.
